


Podsnappery: The End Of Mr. Jonathan Brooks

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [54]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Deception, F/M, London, M/M, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 02:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock's net closes in on the vile Professor Moriarty but he nearly pays a high price for his efforts – the life of his best friend.





	Podsnappery: The End Of Mr. Jonathan Brooks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

This tale related to not one but two references by Doctor Watson. The first, as already mentioned, was Brooks, one of many criminals who wished to kill my brother. The second was mentioned in _The Final Problem_ when Holmes said that he had countered threats by the vile Professor Moriarty against the Watsons by reminding that villain that he too had a family who might suffer 'accidents'. There is a lot of guff talked about honour amongst criminals, but my experience from working through Watson's notes was that there was precious little evidence of any such thing, and the best criminal was one six feet under. In this case, my brother helped one of them bring about his own end.

And before I allow my brother to tell the story of how he came close to losing his friend, I should also mention (because the wonderful Kean says I should) that 'podsnappery' was a Victorian phrase for the act of ignoring inconvenient facts whilst maintaining a virtuous and/or socially elevated air. It can still be found in some dictionaries, just before 'politics'.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Mr. William Holmes Scott Holmes, Esquire_

It is one of the strange parts of human behaviour that, at a time when some in society (and in certain countries who should have known better) were sinking ever lower in their standards, rules were coming into play to prevent barbarism in open conflict. Hence the then recent signing of the Geneva Conventions which, although they could not stop atrocities, made it clear that nations who committed them could expect to find themselves in poor odour for some time thereafter.

It was a similar matter in my ongoing conflict – the term 'war' is not inappropriate - with Professor James Moriarty. He had his family and I had mine, and there was an understanding, which later had to be set out to him in no uncertain terms when he looked set to breach it, that any actions against those I valued would lead to him becoming a widower very soon after. Things had gone better than I had hoped in my attempt to secure his prosecution, and he knew that I had the connections to follow through with my threat. However, like all criminals he was always on the lookout for a loophole – and he found it in one Mr. Jonathan Brooks. Most of the criminal fraternity – Professor Moriarty apart - had at least a spark of humanity buried somewhere inside them, but this man had none whatsoever.

Mr. Brooks claimed to be of noble birth and, given the propensity of some in 'high' society in being unable to keep it in their trousers, this may well have been true. His ancestry was questionable, but his talents and his abuse of them were not, and at this, our final encounter, he was one of the leading proponents of crime in the city. He had undoubtedly been behind the recent robbery at the City & South London Bank, and my directing the Metropolitan Police to his agents drew his ire on me, attentions that Professor Moriarty naturally encouraged.

I did not fear Mr. Brooks myself, but when Miss Day came round and warned me that he was turning his attentions towards Watson, that was another matter entirely. Because unlike Professor Moriarty, Mr. Brooks had no family or even friends who could act as 'leverage' against him. He had to be stopped – but how?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Unhappily Watson's job made him an easy target for the villainous Mr. Brooks, often taking him across the city and to places where he might be attacked before any help could be summoned. When Miss Day spoke to us about the threat he took it seriously enough, but understandably did not wish it to stop him from helping others. In the end I had to compromise; he would only take existing patients, and would always carry his gun with him whenever he went out. It was not enough for me, but I had to accept it. Reluctantly, I might add.

I knew that I should probably not have done it, but I employed one of Miss Richards' most expert followers to see if Mr. Brooks was indeed monitoring my friend's movements. They reported back to me that he indeed was, and my heart sank. I argued with Watson over the need to take more care, and his annoyance at me led to him storming out of Baker Street. I was undeservedly fortunate that his good lady wife, who surely had little cause to hold me in any regard given the dangers to which I exposed her husband, soothed his anger that same evening, and he came round the following morning full of apologies.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day Watson was with me when Baker Street received a most unexpected visitor. None other than Mr. Kean Hardland, my brother Sherry's lover. I was most surprised; like Mrs. Watson he had made little secret of the fact that he regarded me at best warily and at worst as someone whose activities might one day hurt Sherry. I was skilled in several fighting arts but he, as I have said before, was built like a house, although that did _not_ mean that it was socially acceptable for Mrs. Hudson to fake-swoon like that when she ushered him in!

“Mr. Hardland”, I said.” Welcome What brings you to my humble abode?”

The behemoth sat himself carefully onto the sofa before beginning. 

“As you may imagine”, he said, “the boys that Sher and I employ pick up lots of information as to what goes on in and around this city of ours. One of the House Rules is that that information is _never_ passed on; we wish the gentlemen who use our services to know they can do so in confidence. Those that prove incapable of following that rule are asked to leave and not to return.”

“Yet Miss Richards says that you have assisted her with such information before”, I pointed out. (This was a little unfair of me as I knew he spoke the truth; one of my brother's 'boys' had been dismissed after having broken that prohibition).

“Brazen criminality is of course exempt from that”, Mr. Hardland smiled. “Which, I am afraid to say, brings me here today. One of the clients at our Euston house recently learnt something most alarming concerning _you_ , Doctor Watson.”

We both looked at him in alarm.

“There is, as you might imagine, a great deal of social standing in certain localities in the city”, Mr. Hardland said. “So when someone of questionable status moves into such an area it ruffles more than a few feathers. One of our clients was alarmed when, some two weeks ago, his neighbours sold their house in Marigold Place to a man they did not consider 'fitted' the area at all. The man's name was Mr. Jonathan Brooks.”

“I do not know that street”, I said.

“It is a new development on the site of a former factory, on the western side of Goodge Street”, Mr. Hardland said. “

I tensed at once.

“What is it?” Watson asked. 

“Is not Goodge Street where they have that new bakery that you raved about recently?” I asked. He blushed.

“I did not 'rave'”, he said crossly.

“You went on for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds”, I smiled. “What was it again? 'Eight types of pie, and wonderful service, and so handy, and.....”

Mr. Hardland sniggered. Watson glared at us both.

“This house that Mr. Brooks has purchased is called “Podsnappery””, our visitor said. “Sometimes I think that the French have one thing right in not allowing certain naming choices, although from what we know of him I suppose it fits our Mr. Brooks quite well. I asked around the houses in the area and have discovered that he is moving into the house tomorrow; work needed to be done subsequent to his purchase, I suppose.”

“You believe that he is using this property to lure the doctor in”, I asked.

“Does he not know that I am not taking new patients?” Watson asked. His surgery in Paddington was very busy at the time, and they had had to put in place that prohibition to avoid being overwhelmed.

“He must do”, I said. “And that is what makes his actions so curious. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Hardland .”

Our guest stood and bowed, spared me a last curious look then left.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“It was very good of your brother's... friend to help like that”, Watson said once the behemoth had gone.

“There are different levels of criminality”, I said, “as there are in most things in life. For example, most people would accept two gentlemen who room together, but when the likes of Mr. Oscar Wilde openly flaunts his doings in the bedchamber, he will find precious few supporters.”

He sniggered at that.

“Flaunting his doings!” 

I shook my head at him. His schoolboy humour was really appalling at times!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The more I thought about Mr. Jonathan Brooks and his recent housing purchase, the more worried I became. He must have known that I would likely find out about it and that Watson would not go there even if summonsed, so what was he up to? Watson's surgery had an arrangement with one over in Marylebone that they would cover any emergencies, so even if he tried to call and claimed one, he would not get my friend. Still, I did not like it. Miss Richards carefully and quickly researched all the neighbours for me, but they were all that they appeared to be. 

Well, except for the one running a private brothel four doors down. Shocking for a member of parliament, in my opinion.

I decided to visit the area myself and see if that would help my investigations. Whilst Watson was out helping the people of London I travelled to Goodge Street which for those who do not know it is a road leading west off Tottenham Court Road south of where it heads up towards the London & North Western Railway Company's terminus at Euston. The road is not far from my first lodgings in Montague Street, and I was reminiscing of those far-off days as I approached a small turning which led off to a narrow strip of parkland and a new development on each side of same. To the left was Marigold Place and to the right Petunia Place (Victorian road namers were not, I considered, overburdened when it came to imagination, although given some of the house names on display that might have been no bad thing).

I decided to approach wherever my enemy's house was through the parkland which was, I thought, surprisingly lacking in trees. The developers had planted several but they were all many years from providing any decent shelter. I walked along, marvelling at the inventiveness of some people when it came to house names until I found “Podsnappery”. It looked little different from every house in the row, and I could not tell if the vile Mr. Brooks was in or not. I looked across the greensward to Petunia Place, and saw that a cab was just pulling up outside one of the houses there. Using my small but powerful binoculars, I made out that it was “The Willows” that was requiring transport, and was about to wonder why when all hell broke loose.

A second cab entered the small estate at a high if not dangerous speed, and swerved around the southern end of the park before racing some way up Petunia Place, passing the first cab by some distance before stopping. I wondered who was in such a terrible hurry, and was shocked when I recognised the figure who all but tumbled out of the cab, threw some money at the driver and hastened out to knock frantically at the door. It was Watson's and my friend Doctor Peter Greenwood, who I knew worked at the Marylebone surgery that he had an arrangement with.

I hurried towards him, but only got a short distance before I heard him swear, apologize to the offended house-owner (who slammed the door on him) and leap clear down the three steps before bolting along the road. I moved to intercept him.

“What has happened?” I asked anxiously

“John is in danger!” he said. “His surgery received two emergency call-outs one after the other and he insisted on taking the second. Our secretary Miss Peabody told me the address, but the stupid driver dumped me outside “Willowbrook”, not “The Willows”!”

“But why would....”

I stopped, a cold fear gripping my heart. If I could see “Podsnappery” in one direction and “The Willows” in the other, then a man with a gun in the first house might shoot at someone coming out of the second!

What happened next seemed to take place in some horrible sort of slow motion. I bolted back into the park doubtless leaving a puzzled Doctor Greenwood behind me, and even as I did, I heard the sound of Watson's voice as he came out of a house several doors down. If I could get back to my viewpoint, I would have a clear shot at Mr. Brooks – for I did not doubt that he would be the man behind the gun – and I could save my friend. I heard Doctor Greenwood shout a warning to our friend, but I did not have the time to see if he heeded it. I was round the tree – but I was too late.

The door of “Podsnappery” was open and Mr. Jonathan Brooks was stood there, a gun in his hands. The only other person in the street was some lady in a bright blue dress walking a dachshund who was just approaching and, had she been a few steps further on, might well have impinged on his line of sight. I doubt he noticed her – but she most certainly noticed him as she dropped the lead and produced a pistol from nowhere. I had the briefest of instances to recognize Miss Day before she shot Mr. Brooks dead. 

And the sound of gunfire echoed around a small square off Goodge Street in central London, as people screamed and my world, which had threatened to fall apart, was - for the moment, at least – saved.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

There was nothing that could be done for Mr. Jonathan Brooks, even with two doctors in attendance. He was almost dead by the time I reached him, and the human race was well rid of him. I received one last look of hatred from that horrible face – I was glad that he had recognized me at the end - before the light went out of his eyes and he was gone forever. Miss Day had, as was her wont, disappeared; I made a mental note to send round a large box of chocolate eclairs to her home later. She deserved a year's supply of the things!

We had to give our statements to a clearly bemused local constable, who doubtless had neither expected nor wanted such 'excitement' on his patch, and were then allowed to leave. Peter Greenwood very generously assisted on accompanying me back to Baker Street and insisted that I drink a large whisky to stop shaking.

I had nearly lost Watson!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
